


The Perfect Gift

by Pie (potteresque_ire)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Other: See Story Notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-01
Updated: 2011-08-01
Packaged: 2019-05-14 21:23:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14777489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potteresque_ire/pseuds/Pie
Summary: Harry woke in King's Cross to the sight of a lost Draco Malfoy, carrying Voldemort's Horcrux with him and quite convinced that it was his child. He had little recollections of his past, no sense of identity; all he had was a promise from an old wizard—a promise of power, and more importantly, of a perfect gift. Semen symbolizes the source of life in this fic.





	The Perfect Gift

**Author's Note:**

> Written for 2011 Harry's Death-Rebirth Comment Fest, celebrating Harry's 31st birthday. Based on vaysh11's beautiful prompt: It's not Dumbledore but Draco who awaits Harry at King's Cross.

I.

  
The sharp green of Avada Kedavra departs into silver mist.  
  
Harry sits up from the floor and stretches. He feels no pain.  _Death doesn't hurt_ , Sirius told him in the forest, but something does, something caught in the broken cries that woke him moments ago, that continue to trickle into Harry's ears in a frail, sinister lullaby.  
  
The floor is white; the wrought iron beams framing the giant glass dome above him, black. Yet, as Harry blinks, the iridescence in every tile below him becomes visible, as the many shades of colour cast into the mist by the light from the world beyond the dome. But the light’s subtle glory cannot soothe the prickling sensation in his skin, bare and clear of even the scars and wounds that covered him like an old, trusted armor.  
  
Harry isn’t wearing his spectacles, though his vision is the same as when he is wearing them.  
  
But Harry needs to  _see_ , to orient himself in this new place that is oddly reminiscent of King's Cross station, but is far too empty and far too clean. There are no faces that tell of the roads taken and new adventures in the horizon; there are no baggages or memorabilia strewn along the platforms. The fuzziness of the mist reminds Harry of one goblet too many of Firewhiskey on Christmas eve, but offers no comfort that he who is drinking this in will emerge into a bustling morning come sunrise.  
  
He wishes for his glasses and finds it beside him. Maybe it's been there all along, or it has somehow found its way to him through his wish. Harry cannot tell.  
  
Another heart-wrenching, soul-wringing wail tears through the peace between the glass walls.  
  
Harry turns around to look for the source. A mere second ago, he was certain he was alone but then, in a corner far from the platform, sits a man on a lone high chair. The white chair looks made of cheap plastic, so out of place that it seems almost an afterthought, just so the man can look as if he's been there for eternity—a man naked as Harry, his skin so pale it looks conjured from the mist except it receives no vibrant hues from the light. The wrought iron beams arching on the glass dome above cast shadows that draw crosses all over him—and stops when until the man ends and the floor begins.  
  
The face of the man is hidden under a veil of long, blond hair. Nonetheless, it is his arms, or the baby-like creature cradled within, that Harry cannot turn his stare away from. Its skin is a raw, rough scarlet, as though flayed before but clearly not by the man who is holding it in a way that Harry himself, or anyone who isn't experienced with babysitting would. The long limbs of the creature look more fitting for a young child, but the creature is squirming—and wailing—like an infant.  
  
“Draco?” Harry asks. His voice rings clear in the space, when his mind is utterly bewildered by why that one name has spilled from his lips—how does he recognize that this is Malfoy?  
  
But Harry is correct.  
  
The man looks up, not so much in response to Harry's call, it appears, but to the sense of being intruded in a world that seems to belong to just him and his charge alone. Draco's face is sharp to the extent that it looks breakable, as always, but his skin and eyes look grayer than they are in Harry’s recollections. It is Draco Malfoy, though not the same Draco Harry left in front of the burning Room of Requirement. The fear on his wide-eyed, flushed face has made way for a haunted mix of loss and determination.  
  
Draco turns to Harry and studies for a long moment. “I know you,” he announces later. “You own the Deathly Hallows.”  
  
His drawl is muted, as if the voice that brought it to life has long departed and all that is left are echoes to deliver his message.  
  
Harry is soon on his feet. A voice in his mind reminds him that he is unclothed, but that bit of indecency seems to be so… trivial compared to the mystery before his eyes. Draco doesn’t seem to know Harry at all, despite having stated just the opposite. He takes a step forward, watching his feet sink into the mist for a second, only to lift his eyes and see that the chair is no longer there and Draco, too, is standing—and has taken one step towards Harry like a reflection.  
  
The baby raises its hands and pulls on Draco’s nipple. Under the stubby fingers, gashes split open as if the hands were very sharp claws in disguise. Draco doesn't appear to notice. No blood oozes out, only a clear fluid that gets wicked away by an unknown wind, then uptaken by Draco once more through an old scar that runs down his chest. A scar that Harry remembers and has assumed has all but vanished—Professor Snape promised that back in his sixth year at Hogwarts, didn't he?  
  
"Of course you know me,” Harry replies. He sounds strange too, too loud and too clear in this empty space. He is expecting his own echoes but they never come. “What are you doing here? What are you holding?” He presses forward and Draco does, too, but the distance between them seems to remain the same. Is the platform deceptively vast, like a plateau? Or is Draco a mirage? The only thing that signals their closing into one another is the creature in Draco’s arm. It is kicking and squirming viciously, though its cries maintain their fragile—and fake—quality.  
  
Draco frowns. “You two came together,” he says. "I've been waiting."  
  
"For how long?" It can't be more than a few hours since the Fiendfyre. What happened?  
  
"Forever," Draco replies. There are no rolling of eyes, no signs of exasperation that would have clued in that the description is figurative.  
  
And Harry's seems too trivial to Draco here for Draco to lie. The creature has let out another wail and Draco is raising it to rest against his shoulder, patting its back, murmuring something that Harry cannot hear. His downcast eyes are softer than Harry has ever seen them. “Look," he offers, though his arm tightens around the small body when Harry tries to do so. "It can’t live without me, can it?” Despite assigning a lifeless pronoun to the creature, his lips curl into a fond smile. He pulls a small toy from the mist that the creature doesn't seem to appreciate, throwing it back into the mist where it disappears again.  
  
When Draco's attention finally returns to Harry, his eyes are hard and an even duller grey, as if a protective shield has been set within them. He has halted mirroring Harry’s movements as well. “I gave birth to it," he says, enunciating every word as if challenging Harry to challenge its truth. The absurdity, obscenity of what he is saying seems completely lost on him when he adds, with the same conviction. "My legs were spread so wide, expecting my gift.”  
  
Harry must have flinched. Several times. Draco’s eyes turn even colder. “He promised me power, you see. The greatest weapon of them all. Wait, he said, prepare for it and then there it is—” he glances at the creature, falling silent and peaceful after Draco has stopped approaching Harry. "—curled up between my legs, covered in blood." His smile widens, and tiny red fists raise and close around his hair.  
  
“It’ll strangle me one day.” Draco coos, still smiling.  
  
If this is supposed to be funny, Harry doesn't have it in him to laugh. “You’re a man," he says, not sure if Draco can even hear him, with his heart and soul pouring into the creature in his arms. "You can’t give birth to anything.” Harry has not so much lent a thought to Draco’s unclothed state since their conversation began. He chances a glimpse between the pale legs, realizing that he’s actually looking for signs of childbirth.  
  
The mist is making Harry believe in none, believe in all.  
  
Nothing seems out of place there, unless he counts the half-erect length under the blond curls, its head offering a small, clear drop of fluid just like—Harry's mind is struck by an image— just like a flower offering its nectar through a long stalk. Its shade of pink also looks so warm that it seems capable of burning the rest of Draco alive.  
  
Harry looks away; arousal seems unimaginable here, far too… human in this world of mist and light.  
  
And Draco doesn’t seem wanting of anything else other than what he already has, bobbing the creature with only affection in his eyes—a mounting affection that, as Harry observes with alarm, seems to be consuming more and more of Draco as time goes by. The pale skin has lost all its colours but for the small triangle between his legs, and its texture is morphing as well, as his wounds, fresh and old, seem to shine and overtake the unblemished areas on his body.  
  
Then Harry sees it. He sees Draco first dab the head of his cock with a finger and then, lifting and curling it, offers the clear liquid he has collected to the creature. The creature closes its tiny hands around the finger and sucks hard enough for Draco to wince momentarily, although his smile never falters.  
  
It would have been a grotesque sight, if not for Draco looking so open, so utterly  _convinced_  that this is how fatherhood is supposed to be.  
  
The creature emits a sound that is an awful imitation of a baby’s giggling; Draco is so smitten that he presses several kisses of the creature's forehead. Harry’s every nerve end cringes, and his mind snaps back to the important matter at hand.  
  
If the creature arrived here the same moment as Harry did, after the killing curse that was supposed to destroy Voldemort’s Horcrux, a fragment of his soul—  
  
“You have to let this … baby go,” Harry speaks again and Draco jumps and stares at him, as if he has already forgotten Harry’s existence. “It’s not what it looks like," he takes a breath and continues, watching Draco's face. "It’s a small piece of Voldemort.”  
  
“Owner of the Hallows, you’re speaking nonsense.” Draco’s words stack upon one another, each an echo overstaying its welcome. The name of his former master doesn’t appear to register, either. The creature wails. Draco bobs it with one arm, his other hand wrapping around his cock. "Shh. Shh," he whispers, shooting Harry a murderous look before making a promise to the creature. "I'll have more for you soon, all right?"  
  
This is getting out of hand. Harry picks up his pace towards Draco; he will snatch the creature away, if he must. The space around him is retreating at a speed far more accelerated than he can have possibly, physically achieved; the white mist shatters into sparkles, the hues once only hinted in the haze gathering intensity.  
  
Draco falls back at Harry's advance, a distinct silhouette of monochrome in the full spectrum of colours enveloping Harry. “How dare you.” His raised voice is strained as his body is, now entangled in a silvery web of scars; the dark crosses marring his skin dark looks black as the wrought iron beams that cast them. The creature's wails are now sharp at places like cackles; its hands are clawing everywhere on Draco's chest, on Draco's face. “Who do you think you are?”  
  
Harry catches his feet as he finally finds Draco. The glass walls, which were rushing backward so fast in the last stretch of his approach, ripple in his periphery vision and the white mist rolls in again, but Draco’s face has never been so clear to Harry. He can trace every vein under his skin, count every eyelash and look so deep into the pupils that ... Draco’s mind seems to be within his reach.  
  
If only.  
  
Harry’s stomach flips at the bone-searing chill emitting from Draco’s arms. A thin blanket of frost rests upon the Dark Mark. Trails of what look like frozen tears mark the numerous scratches the creature has just clawed not only on to Draco. “That is my question,” Harry says. “Who are you, really?”  
  
Draco stares and his grip on the creature loosens. Harry's closeness is affecting him. His mouth opens for a brief moment and shuts again, his lips forming a thin line. Harry thinks he’s about to say “Malfoy”, but his eyes shift downwards to the creature in his arms, then to Harry, then to the creature again. “It needs me. I’m here.” He swallows. The conviction he showed before is dissolving.  
  
“It doesn’t need you." Harry lowers and smooths his voice as much as he can. "This is an evil spirit and it has done it before, making you a servant. Believe me.” Draco looks up. “And what I want—need—from you is a name. Yours, you know, what people know you by.”  
  
The creature is losing its disguise as it jerks and shudders in its own chill. A strand of hair falls from Draco's forehead, still white but a blond gleam is unmistakable. Harry's question is left to silence, however.  
  
But Draco's frown is answer enough—in that he has no answer to give.  
  
Draco doesn’t remember his own name.  
  
“And who am I?” Harry presses on. “The owner of the Deathly Hallows thing, whoever tells you that, isn’t true. Will never be, because I just throw one away.” As Harry closes in the final sliver of space between them, the creature in Draco’s arms, already stiff and turning grey, gives a loud, shrieking gasp of breath. Draco almost ignores it, chancing it only a glance. Its hold on Draco is about gone and Harry ceases the moment, reaches out and gently closes his hand on Draco shoulder, brushing away the frost that has gathered there with his thumb. “And I reckon you should know that I’m using your wand, still—”  
  
A crackling noise interrupts Harry, from what has to be the other side of railroad tracks. He turns and Draco does as well, just in time to see a chair just like the one Harry found Draco in taking form, folded like origami from torn shreds of mist. The creature rises from Draco’s arms, dissolves into a faint shadow, darts and dives into its shade.  
  
The sudden loss causes Draco to freeze. Venom clouds over Draco’s eyes when they finally manage turn to Harry. “Who are you?” he retorts Harry’s question with a smirk. “Someone who, I was assured, will be down on his knees when I’m handed my weapon. So you can cheat Death. But I’m hardly Death, am I? Don’t you think you can rule over me, I—”  
  
He stops. His smirk fades, but so do the relentless web of scars that has been tautening against his flesh, the shadows of the wrought iron defacing his skin.  
  
Something has dawned upon him. He studies Harry once more and slowly, he reaches out, his fingertips tracing up along Harry’s forehead before brushing his hair aside. The lightning scar must have remained despite Harry’s skin being free of other blemishes, for Draco’s gaze remains there and for long. His lips tremble.  
  
“My name is Harry.”  
  
Draco nods.  
  
Harry doubts the name is meaning much to him, the history between them remains hidden in the wasteland of his memory.  
  
But when Draco resumes talking, his voice is soft, like a confession or a prayer, even it has cleared of its echoes. “I’m done playing pawn," he pauses to think. "Harry. I’m done being used and left to rot.” He retracts his hand and combs Harry’s hair back down with his fingers. “I’ll find my way, lead, be there for whoever will follow, whoever needs me.” He stops, and there’s no mistake that his gaze flickers towards the chair for just one instant. “There has to be someone worthy of … care, who’ll return the favor.”  
  
“I care, Draco Malfoy,” says Harry.  
  
Draco flinches at his own name. A rush of color thaws the frozen, colourless blood on his face. It falls like tears. “Why? It’s not as if you’ve got much to gain from me, seeing that you’re here …” He tilts his head, gazes upwards towards the domed ceiling. “And I.”  
  
Harry shakes his head. He extends a hand and cups Draco face; fluid seeps out between his fingers and dries instantly. “I don’t want anything, Draco. But I promise, I’ll gladly kneel before you if after you find… even while look for your way, it helps for me to do it. You don’t need to fight me. And I care because I…”  
  
Words fail Harry, so does his reason.  
  
Why does he care? He wouldn’t have said the same thing to Crabbe, or Zabini or Parkinson, he knows himself that much. It’s only, always Draco, Harry’s own…  
  
…Chosen One. Yet Harry believes in what he’s just said with all his heart.  
  
Silence hangs in the mist. “Prove it,” Draco whispers. There is no triumph in his challenge, only bitterness.  
  
Harry does the only thing he can do. He falls on his knees.

  
  
II.

  
This world is one of contradictions, or perhaps, it is the world Harry came from that must supply opposites and drag them into its own poles, such that they are fated to meet and part in a cycle of peace and war and peace again… bating its breath for the one tiny incident that will once again tear the world apart.  
  
This isn’t sex, and yet, there is no other word to describe it, with Draco’s legs spread in a wide V and Harry lying in between them, kissing him, penetrating him, chanting his name over and over again.  
  
  


*~*~*

  
It wasn't even lust.  
  
When Draco fell on his knees after Harry and leaned in and sealed their lips together, what Harry felt wasn’t raging blood or dancing chest monsters but the bliss of trust as a pact was also being sealed. It reminded Harry of years ago, back in his Muggle school days when girls still wearing pigtails did pinkie promises, their face scrunched up with fierce devotion as their fingers curled against one another.  
  
Except this promise between he and Draco was made with their mouths. And then, with their body.  
  
The beautiful human body, even if it was battered like Draco’s, the colour returned to his flesh making its every cut, every scar look even more terrifying, more painful. Harry got a full view of Draco’s almost as soon as they separated from the kiss. Draco simply lay down, his feet planted against the floor, arched his back for a lazy little stretch before letting his thighs fall. He couldn’t have been more casual if what he was about to show Harry were the package of sweets he’d just received by owl, or the new quill and ink set hidden in his school trunk. He wrapped his hand around his cock, now fully erect, dabbed a finger at the tip to collect the tiny drop of fluid there as he did before.  
  
Harry could no longer pretend to not know what Draco was expecting when his finger slid lower, smearing the fluid around the hole.  
  
“Maybe you’ve got my gift.” Propping himself up on his elbows so that he could see Harry, Draco talked, the edge of his drawl was dulled by an innocent cheer so uncharacteristic, so … wrong on a Malfoy. The looks Draco were offering Harry had long exceeded a distant fondness, his smile filled to the brim with the same affection that had seemed reserved for the creature not long ago.  
  
He hadn’t looked at the chair once after the kiss, even if Harry could hear renewed feeble sobs again.  
  
Harry understood then. Draco had no sense of identity here because he was meant to serve as a battleground, the last, semi-living one between Harry and the Dark Lord.  
  
Harry’s heart clenched. His blood boiled. This was cruel and unfair; whoever designed this game was a right bastard.  
  
And yet, this was the one battle Harry could not walk away from.  
  
“The gift you’re expecting. What is it?” Harry asked, forcing himself to relax as he lay down beside Draco. He had nothing on him to give. He lifted his hand into the mist, trying to catch the tiny speckles of colours, trying to see if he has the power to mold them into something—  
  
Draco, meanwhile, closed his eyes. When his long eyelashes fanned open again, he said, “He didn’t tell me.”  
  
“He?” A hidden current of mist blew away the speckles just landed on Harry’s fingers. “Who is he?”  
  
Draco collapsed on the floor and turned towards Harry, pressing a kiss on Harry’s lips, then on his scar. “You should know to not bother with any more “who” questions.” Still, he paused to think, cushioning his head with his Dark Mark. “An old man. Said that he was waiting for the Owner of the Hallows, who should arrive soon, but decided that I’ll be more… persuasive. For my effort, a seeker bearing my reward will come, he promised, and it will be a perfect gift, as long as I understand the intercourse between death and life. In here.” He nodded towards the glass dome, the light above it. “I told him yes, I understood, not that I knew how, but then I remembered something…” His voice fell; Draco chewed his lips for a moment at what was clearly a difficult memory. “So I said to him, but I wanted nothing. Nothing but be strong. Be my own. He smiled and said to me then,  _you’ll get that too, Draco_ —yes,  _Draco_ , he called me that—the most powerful weapon ever, when the Owner of the Hallows goes down on his knees.”  
  
Draco sighed. “So I’ve been waiting. I asked the man before he goes too, how do I know he isn’t lying? And he asks, do I believe …?” Confusion marred the lively sparks in his eyes; he had lost his train of thought. “You haven’t seen that Owner bloke around here, have you, Harry?”  
  
Harry closed his eyes. Draco couldn’t linked him to his recent past and more importantly, Harry would never even imagine a Malfoy using the word “bloke”, which was so distinctively, so famously … Weasley, who was of course, Harry’s friend. He wrapped his arm around Draco’s shoulders. “I’m afraid not,” he replied softly.  
  
“No matter,” Draco said, turning to Harry again, silver flames re-ignited in his eyes. “I’ll take any chance I get.”  
  
“I don’t know what I can give you. I came as I am, naked.” Harry gestured at his own body.  
  
His cock was filling.  
  
Draco noticed it too. He curled, rested his head on Harry’s stomach and reached for the length. His touch was unexpectedly smooth, as if shrouded by an invisible layer of silk.  
  
Maybe it was, the mist was ever shifting.  
  
The shame and feelings of filth that Harry had expected to crash in never came. He found himself spreading his limbs, offering more room for Draco to explore. And Draco did, as if there were no cause or reason for Harry to keep anything private; when Harry’s thighs got in the way, he simply nudged them further apart. The same went for Harry’s arse cheeks. The pale, slender fingers worked with the same easy efficiency as they had as Draco had prepared himself and they were everywhere, pulling on Harry’s shaft, cupping his balls and squeezing them in a curious fit until Harry yelped in pain, prodding his fingertip into that small piece of skin at the base of Harry’s cock, pressing upon Harry’s perineum with his fingers and when one of them slipped inside Harry’s anus, all he did was …. grinned at Harry’s gasp and pushed it in further.  
  
Meanwhile, pleasure and need built inside Harry—not the kind that made him want to shove his cock somewhere but more similar to when he’d just learned of the most wonderful piece of news, and he couldn’t wait to share it with someone he loved.  
  
He stared at his cock, surprised that he felt no discomfort. Draco’s ministrations had led to the same physical effect as they would in the world below. It was red and more swollen than Harry had thought it ever possible; he was never a leaker, but now, strings of pre-come ran like clear ribbons from the head and down the length of his shaft.  
  
Not knowing what overtook him, Harry had gathered the fluid on his fingers.  
  
“Draco,” he called, and it was then when Draco first showed signs of hesitation. He smacked his lips, gazed longingly at the dampness that was Harry’s hand before looking into Harry’s eyes one more time. Then the tip of his tongue ventured out between the teeth.  
  
The taste, whatever it was, was enough to whet his appetite. Too aggressively, almost. Soon Harry found his hand being devoured by Draco, whose tongue traveled back and forth from the tip to base of every finger.  
  
“More,” he said when he was done.  
  
“Help yourself. It’s not like you weren’t,” Harry replied with a smile, although his mind was once again in full guard now that he noticed Draco had begun to tremble. The tremors were escalating too.  
  
In no time, Draco collapsed upon Harry and clung onto him, an arm wrapped around Harry’s chest. “You don’t offer people in transition an unlimited supply of life. You’ll kill them,” he whispered against Harry’s ear.  
  
“Is it bad for them?” Harry held the shaking body tightly against himself.  
  
“Rather the opposite. It’s like water.” Even the soft drawl was quaking. “And I’ve been stranded in the desert for—” Draco’s mouth gave a small tug on to Harry’s nipple, the act of which seemed to calm him "—forever. No one is supposed to stay here, you understand. We die with a few breaths left in us; a few heartbeats. We must board the train before they’re exhausted. You, too, will have to leave like everyone else, even if you seems to have…” he glanced at Harry’s cock and he wetted his lips again, like a child in front of Honeyduke's display window “…an ample supply.”  
  
Harry took the hint, collected more fluid and offered it to Draco. Draco grabbed his wrist with both hands and sucked on his fingers. Something in the sight made Harry empathize on why Draco had confused the creature as his baby; but the reason, the logic remained still just out of his grasp.  
  
“I don’t see anyone else here,” Harry said.  
  
“How can you not?” Draco was nudging Harry’s hand downward again. “Several trains have passed beside us. They’re packed.”  
  
Harry shook his head. “Where are they going?”  
  
Draco froze. His gaze turned to the railroad track, to the chair on the opposite side. “I wouldn’t know, would I?” His grip on Harry’s wrist remained tight and the faint blue in his eyes retreated. “They refused to let me board, those trains with the sign that says  _On_. They said—” he contemplated, searching his broken memory long and hard. “It doesn’t belong there. The baby. I can’t take it with me.”  
  
“So you’ve stayed behind for that …baby?” Harry kicked himself for bringing it up.  
  
Draco, who would have forgotten about the Horcrux if not for Harry’s carelessness, was about to nod when his clouded stare connected with Harry’s scar. The nod turned into a violent shake of his head.  
  
“No.” Draco sucked and bit on one of Harry’s fingers. Harry could barely suppress his yelp. “I’m here only for my perfect gift. I’ll get it, won’t I? He promised, if only I believe …” He threw Harry’s hand aside and moved downward, shaking harder than ever. Right before he took Harry’s cock in his mouth, the words broke through “…if I believe in mercy.”  
  
Harry took a deep breath. This was the last piece of puzzle that confirmed his suspicion.  
  
How could the old man not be  _him_?  
  
Mercy, for Draco Malfoy. Someone who knew about the Deathly Hallows, who promised a seeker…  
  
And the seeker would come,  _he_  assured Draco, and Draco knew to prepare himself for it. Quite literally.  
  
_I’ll take any chance_ , Draco had said.  
  
Knowledge, or rather comprehension, infused into Harry then, as though it was suspended in the mist around them all along and they finally found this moment to permeate Harry’s mind. That intercourse between Death and Life; this place known as Transition, where life was the only sustenance, the one currency and language of rewards and revenge, for each life came with nothing but itself and it needed to leave with nothing. This was why here, under the glass dome, everything pertaining to sex, childbirth, parenthood—how life had perpetuated for millions of years—seemed at once the most elemental, and the most trivial.  
  
And if this world follows the one before it, then the way life was gifted, and the ultimate, most perfect chance was given, was one and simple.  
  
“Stop, Draco.” Harry ran his fingers through the blond hair and gently lifted Draco’s head away from his body. “Stop. We’ll have to do this the right way.”  
  


*~*~*

  
This is how it comes to this—Harry being inside Draco, chanting his name not only because he needs Draco to remember it, but also because Harry can hear Voldemort’s soul fragment gaining strength enough to start wailing again. If this plan doesn’t fall through and Draco must board the train, will he be tempted to detour by the cries again? Deceived in his desperate need to be needed once more?  
  
Harry calms his mind and focuses on the strained, flush face before him. If not for  _his_  wisdom, Harry wouldn’t be here.  
  
Harry seals his lips against Draco’s. Rather than a mounting pressure to spill his all, Harry senses himself steadily supplying Draco a part of himself—what Draco had been promised, the clear fluid called life, the perfect gift with which Draco can find his strength and his way.  
  
Draco is receiving his gift in a manner Harry has quickly learned to expect and love. Uninhibited, his body spread to its limit, his skin glowing with sweat and the light from beyond; he never, for once, closes his eyes and his mouth is moaning, calling Harry’s name and encouraging him to give his all. The tremor hasn’t stopped to shoot through the body every now and then, and each time it does, the ends of the gashes and scars on the Draco’s flesh splinter and break, and do so until the marks are there no more—the only resilient one is the long scar that runs down his chest, just like the lightning bolt that stays on Harry’s forehead.  
  
They must be tokens of a second chance.  
  
Harry is finally feeling close to imparting all he can. His cock remains hard and swollen, easing his delivery of he almost suspected was bottomless for a while. How Draco can take in so much, Harry can’t fathom. He presses another kiss, this time a quick one on the tip of Draco’s nose, which is unquestionably very pointy. Very Draco. “I’m almost done,” he whispers with a smile.  
  
He is about to slow down when Draco pleads “a little longer” and begins shifting his hips upward, meeting Harry half way. Harry re-planting his palms firmly on the floor just in time before Draco manages to yank him down “Easy.”  
  
Draco wants none of that. “Please. Don’t you stop.” The exertion is causing Draco to pant furiously “Hit me on my… my.... Higher.” His legs have bent so far back that some laws of the human body must have been broken. “No, the other way, Harry. More.” He yelps when Harry finds the angle, his head falling back for one moment as he shouts, “There... yes. Fuck me. Hard. Yes!”  
  
It strikes Harry then that he’s only assumed that Draco, like himself, hasn't been thinking of this as sex. But the way Draco is screaming profanities at him now, his one arm coiled Harry’s neck such that their eyes remain locked upon one another as his other hand pulls frantically on his own cock… it is impossible to believe that Draco’s feeling any different here than he would have in the world below. The same intense pleasure. The same intimate passion. And Harry himself…  
  
They briefly lose their balance as Draco’s muscles begin to give way to his impending climax; Harry scrambles and reclaims it then, their foreheads touching again as he speeds his thrust, hitting Draco right where he wants him to. Draco, Harry realizes then, is not only incredibly vocal, dirty and tight.  
  
He is, above all, incredibly beautiful.  
  
And right here and now, he, Harry, is determined to make Draco happy, drinking in the sight that he knows no matter how many years in the future he and Draco will take their second chance to, chances are, he will never see this again.  
  
Draco stills and chokes when Harry slams his cock in one more time; his back arches and he is coming. A stream of clear fluid rushes out of his cock, then spreads on his stomach like water. Harry can hear, in the moment of silence, the wailing from afar that has all but amplified into screeches. The only protest it is capable of.  
  
But Draco seems to not hear it at all, not even after he has collapsed against the floor and caught his breath. Instead, he studies the glass dome, idly counting the number of glass panes that form each arch as if the view is new to him. “Thirteen,” he says. “No surprise there. And why all the space when it's so empty here?” He looks around before turning to Harry and as if, too, he hasn’t been looking at Harry the whole time, he plucks the glasses off Harry’s nose and dangles them with his finger. “You’re wearing this the whole time?”  
  
Harry grins at Draco.  
  
“Drink this,” Draco smiles a beautiful smile and resumes softly, gesturing at fluid pooled on his torso. “I don’t have much of a store of it but … consider this my thank you.” As his gratitude leaves his lips, he has begun to play with the legs of Harry’s spectacles until somehow, they become the wings of a crane that flies and disappears into the mist. He lets out a soft sigh as he watches it go. “You’re leaving soon, aren’t you?”  
  
Harry nods. He has no idea how much time has passed, but he must go—not on, but back—not only to see through the demise of Voldemort, but to see how this man before him will live his second chance, which he has faith that it will happen. He sits up, kneels between Draco’s still spread thighs, wipes his hand lightly against Draco’s stomach and brings his palm to his face, where he touches the fluid with the tip of his tongue. It is nothing like what he has expected—warm and sweet, a bit like treacle. He finds his mouth lingering on his hand.  
  
“Playing coy doesn’t suit you.” Meanwhile, Draco observes him, a smirk forming on his lips. “You love it.” He runs his own hand along the flank of his body then, stopping at his cock, the innocent openness before giving way to what can only described as seduction. “Clean me up, will you?”  
  
Not that Harry can come up with much of a complaint. The sweetness is rousing that old, familiar thing in his chest and while it is still a little hazy to do its moves, it is purring happily all right. So Harry, for once, does exactly what Draco asks of him, kissing and licking the now perfect expanse of skin on his stomach when Draco speaks again.  
  
“And promise me, Harry.” Draco’s voice is low and his drawl, muffled with the satiated bliss. Harry looks up; heavy eyelids are drooping over Draco’s eyes, like velvet curtains at the close of an act, and the red taint on his cheeks has to be more than just the colours of life. “Don’t be a stranger after we go back.” Draco smiles lightly at the mist. “I… he… I remember just now, towards the end. He’d love to share more of his, shall we say,  _life_  with you.” A corner of his mouth lifts and he resorts to biting his lips, still swollen and a soft pink, to suppress what are no doubt… pratty snickers. The pure affection in his eyes has been sullied by mischief, a dash of daredevil and a touch of the devil himself… of Draco Malfoy himself.  
  
“Would love it very, very much, in fact. As for myself…” Draco closed his eyes and his speech slows, his words trailing off. “You’d better be there when I choose my path. When I walk my path.”  
  
Too stunned to say anything to this confession, a question nonetheless pops into Harry’s head. How will he remember this after he returns? As a note, albeit an important one, in the inexplicable history between he and Draco, or as a dream? But then he remembers the many disastrous date stories he was forced to hear at the breakfast table in Hogwarts, and even the most vile, worthless bloke starring in them hadn’t stooped so low as to ask if whoever he’d just slept with was real or a figment of his imagination. He chuckles to himself and presses another line of small pecks on Draco’s stomach, until the breathing slows.  
  
And then, stops.  
  


  
III.

The white mist sinks into cold, hard stones. Harry wakes up with the sweet smell lingering in his nose, the nectar on Draco’s skin morphing into the scent of fresh grass in the forest.  
  
He hears talking. Soon, a soft hand touches his heart, the steady pounding of life against his ribs.  
  
_Is Draco alive?_  Narcissa Malfoy asks.  
  
_Yes_ , Harry answers.  
  
He knows. It is the truth.  
  
  
_~Fin_


End file.
